


Tangents Within a Framework

by ladygrange



Category: Led Zeppelin
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, b/c loving touch calms the body and slows heart rate, hearts live all over here, rhythms known beneath the surface, she puts her palm over his chest, the aorta is blood's starting point for circulation throughout the body, the heart as fist sized and strong, the microphone used in levee has a pickup pattern in the shape of a heart, these are the inner workings, where its electrical system travels from nodes to fibers and contracts the muscles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25960912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladygrange/pseuds/ladygrange
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. The Savoy Hotel - London

“Can you tell the readers why the Led Zeppelin refuse to make television appearances?” Georgina Mells asks.

She has the practiced ratio of curiosity and bluntness afforded to an experienced journalist. Though not every attendee at this particular record commendation possesses good manners. A few of them bustle quietly in the corners and perimeter of the Savoy’s spacious reception room. Emma settles deeper into the corner of a velvet couch at the other side of the room.

Sat across from Mells, right leg over left, Jimmy touches a finger to his nose. A tape machine on the coffee table will record his answer. He glances quickly at Emma. This interview, one of many in the flurry of activity, has proved particularly long lasting. 

Words in order, Jimmy answers,

“We don’t get a chance to produce a true sound, to show the group as they are musically, and in that case I won’t accept television.”

He fiddles idly with the ends of his scarf, and Emma senses his desire to talk about the third LP, the one in which nobody seems interested. She thinks she should have tucked the whole of his scarf in his sweater vest. Pink upholstery covers his chair and favors his dark hair and beard. Sets off his brown coat and sweater with the lambdas. She dips in and out of attention.

“… glad the others liked it. Now I want to release the full potential of the band, let us all develop and make bigger contributions to the way we sound in the future.”

Fire pops and hisses loudly next to Emma, lively in its hearth. She muses on the strength of the microphone inside the recorder, if it’ll pick up the fire, or the hubbub from outside.

Robert's voice carries so far it’ll definitely pick that up. He chats about the high water mark of September’s shows in New York, and now, a stretch of time to get new material planned. Get together, practice, and record. Nineteen seventy-one beckons. 

Mells presses, “You don’t find that a television appearance would broaden your audience?”

Jimmy shakes his head. “We play as we feel. A number can last eight minutes one night and twenty the next. Musically our stage act is obviously the best thing we do, and our sets get longer and longer.” 

He glances again at Emma, as if she might vanish in a flash; a wink of time between the question posed, and the time he takes to answer. She wills him to quit; her flight doesn’t leave for a few hours more. 

“There’s always at least two hours,” he says, “but that’s without any extra numbers for encores. I believe in doing as much as is physically possible, if the audience wants it.”

She watches his fingers once more at his scarf. Three of those fingers had been inside her recently. Early this morning, while she’d gasped and jerked helplessly into her orgasm. Holding her afterward, Jimmy had attempted to get her to renege on East Berlin. 

A tap at her shoulder dissolves her thoughts, and she looks up and behind to see Robert with a wide grin. 

“Is he done yet?” Robert asks in a whisper. 

“Just about,” she says. “Why, are you getting antsy?”

Robert snorts. “I’m all finished up, actually.”

“Really?” Her brows raise.

“Yes, really,” Robert says, hand cupped over his cigarette while he lights the end. “Don’t look so shocked. Jimmy handled most of them today. He knows how to talk.”

The corner of her mouth quirks. “Yes, but you much prefer it and you look like you just woke up, so you’ve yet to fill the quota.”

Robert nudges her shoulder with his hand. “Come and have a bit of breakfast with me.”

“It’s noon, Robert.”

He grins. “Second breakfast.”

“All right, but you’ve filled your quota. You may be quiet.”

He offers an arm. “Jimmy’ll be along shortly.”

“Why?” She pulls her arm back, eyes narrowed. “If this involves baked beans, stale tea, or any other food product dumped on my head, understand I will not be pleased.”

Robert rolls his eyes and tugs her along, calling over his shoulder. “Jim, we’re getting breakfast.”

She watches with slight concern at the rate in which Robert consumes his food. He’s foregone the silverware and eats like a server might snatch the plate at any moment. She rests her cheek in her fist and traces the delicate porcelain handle of her teacup.

“Surely whatever you smoked last night has worn off by now.”

He sucks his thumb clean. “You had some too, tell me.”

She reaches across the table for a piece of buttered toast. “First, I didn’t have much, and second, I was in bed by a decent hour.”

Dimples form at his cheeks, teeth decidedly wolfish. She flushes despite herself.

“Shut up,” she murmurs over the rim of her cup.

“Didn’t say a thing.”

“Your face is loud.”

“Thank you, Em,” he says, promptly thieving her mug and draining the rest.

She tips the silver tea service into the empty cup, piping hot with steam curling between them. Cut peaches and apples sit untouched on her plate — a sudden wave of nostalgia arrives. She brushes that off, six months is nothing, not a long stream of tea but a drop. 

“My darling,” Jimmy’s greeting comes just over her shoulder, his lips touch the crown of her head. 

She reaches around to cup his cheek, beard thick on her palm. He takes the chair next to hers and reaches for a slice of peach, his favorite. 

“How’d it go?” Robert asks, polishing off the last of his food. He glances hopefully at Emma’s tea but she puts one palm over the cup and shoots him a look.

“Fine,” Jimmy says, reaching for another piece of fruit. “The usual, really.”

“Can’t seem to get new questions can we? Just once I want someone to ask me about the state of the world.”

Jimmy grins and accepts the cup Emma passes him. “Peter was asking for you just now, believe you’ve got one more lined up.”

Robert stands with an aggrieved expression quickly dispelled by a wink. “Have a safe flight, Emma.”

She smiles tightly, but thankfully he doesn’t notice. “Thank you, Robert.”

Jimmy traces the inner part of her wrist, where the skin is silky and crossed with blues. His gaze fixes there with consternation. She braces herself for his words.

“I don’t want you going, Emmaline.”

Her visa to the Friedrichshain borough of East Berlin is rare and hard won; the job at the Deutsche Gramophone offers an invaluable experience. Six months away, recording with the best, learning from the best. Skills honed that would otherwise go unexercised. 

“It’s important to me, Jimmy,” she says. “Besides, we will see each other in the meantime.”

She’s repeated herself too many times for this to be effective. Jimmy pins her with his gaze, his grip tightens on her wrist, his words are sharp and low. 

“You know the guards are free to shoot anyone who crosses where they shouldn’t. I see nothing preventing them from -”

He leaves off, biting back the aggression towards this imagined threat.

“Jimmy,” she says. Brings his hand up to press a kiss to taut muscles. Gradually, he loosens, and she puts her words to the slope of skin between his knuckles. “Nothing like that will happen. I’ve got a good place to stay, and an open-ended ticket back should I need to come home.”

“You don’t have to stay home, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Jimmy says, words rushed. Their time is almost up, he knows, and will not lose the argument from between his jaw. “Come with me, anywhere you like.”

She raises a brow, “Anywhere except where I’m supposed to be, where I want to be.”

He looks bruised at the last part. She folds his hand near her chest and takes a solid breath.

“It will be fine. I will see you exactly as we’ve planned, at the Grange in a month, before I need to go back. Don’t look so gloomy, now, you have all my numbers.” She smiles softly and reaches to adjust the bow of his scarf. “All two of them. I’ll either be at the flat, or in the studio, possibly a quick trip for some groceries. You’ve got plans, rehearsals and recording, then the Clubs tour. Plenty to keep you busy.”

Jimmy nods, mollified, and squeezes her hand, still pressed tightly to her chest. 

“You’ll be safe.”

“I’ll be safe.”

“Then we should,” Jimmy nods over his shoulder. 

“Yes,” she says. “The car’s waiting and there’s likely a jam near Heathrow.”

Jimmy keeps her hand the whole way, intent on taking it though a calm voice on the intercom announces boarding. 

“I’ve got to go now,” she says prying his hand away. “Jimmy.”

He looks at her with that same bruised expression. Eyes downcast. In the half hour drive he’d said nothing, had only kept one arm around her, kept her buried to his side. She puts her free hand past his lapel and inside his coat, against his breastbone. Warm woolen sweater, warm skin underneath. 

“That interview you gave wasn’t entirely honest, Jimmy.”

He gives her a confused look. She compresses her lips, eyes glittering with humor.

“You didn't mind playing skiffle on the telly.” 

He matches her look, eyes narrowed but mirthful. “I was thirteen, darling, and very nervous the whole time.”

She shrugs and smiles a little. “Now you’re much older and it would make for a good program.”

Pursed lips give way to a smile and the sides of his eyes gather. She takes his crinkles and stows them for the coming stretch ahead. 

“I’ll see you soo-”

Before she can finish, Jimmy grabs the back of her neck. For her mouth crushed to his, a ferocious angle, plying her with his taste, his tongue. 

Then, a sudden, soft shift. 

A sweet tug of his lips and tongue, breath and nose pushed to her cheek. A familiar tingle sits on her skin, that rasp from his beard. Time sinks into the kiss. Her fingers curl into his hair. Jimmy laps and tastes, and he kisses back. Back to her bottom lip, the tip of her nose, her chin. The bow of her mouth. He leans his forehead against hers.

“I’ll see you at the Grange,” she breathes, voice a hint thick while she strokes his cheek.

Jimmy nods. Unidentified emotion blazes just underneath his flushed cheeks. 

“Come back safe.” 


	2. Headley Grange - Hampshire

Emma lowers one microphone from the third floor of the minstrel’s gallery. A bucket into a well. A few meters from the drum kit. The pickup pattern is hypercardioid; thin, twin ribbons of metal inside the microphone listen as an ear. Vibrate and span forward in the shape of an upside down heart. Oversized heart, it will resist feedback. Will catch each echoed thwack that Bonzo hits. Will set down the resonance of the wooden stairwell and the finely tuned drum heads onto tape, acetate, vinyl. 

Bonzo grins up at them from his stool, right as Andy finishes lowering the other microphone from across the way. He gives the kick drum a few beats. 

“It’s got frudge, doesn’t it?”

She nods. “It was meant for this place.”

“Sounded too fucking flat at Island,” Bonzo says. Gives an experimental few beats. Grins again. Voracious. “Fucking hell…”

Jimmy steps into view, bits of wilderness attached to him. Fisherman’s hat at a sloping angle with the front brim flipped up and the back shielding his neck. A man out for nets sunk into water, with mud-caked wellies. A man grinning at her. Her heart tumbles out to him.

“What did I tell you about the ambience, darling?”

She tucks her smile into one corner of her mouth. “Well, you weren’t very forthcoming on the phone.”

His call had come a week past, a week until she was to fly from her temporary flat and travel to this dilapidated house in Hampshire. Impatience marked his voice, to tell her all he could before they had to hang up, to see her soon.

“When are you going back to Germany, Emma?” Bonzo asks, cigarette between his lips.

“Tomorrow morning,” she says, catching Jimmy’s frown from her peripheral. 

Thankfully Andy redirects Bonzo’s attention to the rhythm of the track. He goes to the truck, to listen and to get the tape rolling. A limiting amp will preserve the cymbal and the high hat and soften any unwanted crackle. Jimmy offers his echo chamber to thicken the effect. He’ll mix the whole of it in California.

Arms folded on the bannister, she calls down. “Why is it called that?”

“Called what, darling?”

“The Grange, the Grange part, I mean.”

Jimmy smiles up at her. “It means grain, from the Latin. Just any house built with barns attached to the estate.”

She furrows her brows. “That’s where all those people worked.”

“Mm, they kept the men and women separate.” Jimmy waves her to him. “Come down here, darling.”

She saunters down the minstrel’s gallery stairs to a face delighted to see her; as though they’d been parted for decades instead of four weeks. 

“You can’t possibly want to discuss that miserable past right now.”

“Actually,” she says, while he offers her coat. “I want to know about that old dog hanging about. Seems everywhere I turn he’s there.”

Jimmy smiles, buttons her coat to her chin. “We think he’s been here for years.”

“Ah, an established tenant then,” she says, while they walk from the drafty house to the chilly February lawn. “And obviously very taken with Robert.”

“They’re out here for as long as the dog wants,” he says. “Not very long mind you, his joints are giving out.”

They pass Jonesy, leaning on the mobile recording truck, listening to playbacks. One ear popped free of the headphones, he says,

“Good to see you, Emma. Hope the Deutsche Grammophon is treating you well.”

“Very well, thank you John.” 

Jimmy hugs her closer. “Have I shown you the sunroom?”

She chuckles. “No, but there’s not much sun to speak of right now. I’m shocked Bonz captured anything usable on that camera of his.”

Jimmy nods around the house, “Come and see.”

Hot breath condenses into white around their faces. Jimmy’s lips and cheeks are bright red, beard quite dark. He glances at her every now and again, loath to let her go too far. Only when they’re out of sight from the others, around back of the house, does he take her face in hand.

“Emmaline.” His thumbs rub circles on her cold cheeks. 

She turns her lips to kiss the edge of his palm. “Did you like the magazine I sent?”

His face brightens, eyes alight. “The Studio, you know it was an important voice for the Arts and Crafts movement.”

“I do know.” She grins. “Thanks to you.”

He looks a tad sheepish. “I’m thinking about getting the font worked out by a friend in London. It’s too distinctive not to use somehow.”

“I think that’s a lovely idea.” She leans up to press a kiss to his mouth. “Now show me the sunroom.”

With glass sides and a tin roof, the room catches afternoon light in drawn out squares. A few chairs decorate the space, devoid of cushions. Jimmy latches the door closed and observes her, fingers gliding on the smooth, cold panes, hair a long spill down her back. She turns her head.

“What are you looking at me for?”

“You’ve cut your hair.”

She continues her stroll, smile growing. “Not very much.”

Jimmy meets her on her slow journey and wraps his arms around her waist. “And you look different.”

She scoffs playfully. “I do not.”

“Are you eating well?”

“Yes,” she says, one hand rests on the side of his face. “I’m eating well.”

Jimmy looks unconvinced. “You haven’t had any trouble?”

“I have actually, my other lover is impatient for me to get back.”

He jostles her in his arms, grinning now. Crinkles now. Still that tinge of concern which exasperates her a little. A kiss, she decides, his lips open to speak then open for her - for exploring. Tongue deliciously hot and one hand on her neck. Beard a sweet, familiar rasp. Grown longer now, it gives his cheeks a sweet, pale slope. 

“And this?” she murmurs between the kiss and the breath. “Is this different?”

Jimmy groans brokenly and captures her mouth again. He is hungry. And he groans when she reaches between them, hand parting his coat, to cup him through denim. Her smile breaks the kiss.

“Sit down,” she whispers.

He goes, zip too, belly trembling when her mouth meets his erection. Hips lifting out of the chair. She puts two fingers at his tip and runs them through her saliva and the pearly beads of fluid welling there.

“I wanted to tell you,” she says, blushing furiously. “In our last letter.”

Jimmy cups the back of her head. “Tell me what, my darling.”

Half abashed, terribly aroused, his cock pulsing in her hands, she confesses.

“That I’ve wanted you inside me, and,” she laps at a salty pearl and tells her words to his clothed belly, “I’ve gotten off, thinking of this.”

Jimmy’s hand moves beneath her chin, to raise her face. His look is heady, _laden_ with want. 

“Show me, that’s it, deep as you can.”

He throbs on her tongue, leaks and tightens when she moans around his flesh. There is want. Then, there is his cock in her mouth, testicles drawn tight. She weighs them in her palm, rolls them till he’s gasping. There is want, then –

Absolute, undiminished need. He’ll come soon. Too soon. She aches for him, squeezes her thighs together to subdue herself. 

“Emmaline,” he grits out, nearly there.

She wishes she could reach his nipples, toy with them and watch his face crumble with pleasure. Much too cold outside for complete undressing.

Instead, she takes her skirt in a fist and stands. To straddle him and pull her underwear to the side. Her sex is slick already, she takes him halfway before his mouth trembles and he’s bucking into her. Tight wet heat. Muscles which clamp around him. 

She coos his name. Receives his semen with a graceful roll of her hips. And strokes his face. Scrunched up in that way of his - nose and mouth and eyes and his neck outstretched for kisses. She gives them along his working throat while he comes down from the orgasm. And carefully, so carefully, lets his cock slip out.

Jimmy sits up to nuzzle her neck, beard a dense rasp. Gratitude runs under the little inarticulate sounds he makes on her skin. Wandering hands reach between her legs. Her hips rear forward of their own accord.

“Sensitive,” he remarks, licking below her ear. “And dripping.”

A breathless little laugh leaves her. “That’s from you.”

Jimmy hums a deep, pleased noise that makes her clench inside. Around nothing. His fingers slip and cling to perpetually tender flesh. Seed dribbles slowly from her, to soak even her curls. 

She says his name in that pleading way only he understands, says it with her face buried in his hair, lips near his beard. They’re a tangle of clothed and exposed bodies, hers thrumming with arousal.

“Please,” she rolls her hips into his teasing hand. 

Jimmy bites her earlobe and sinks two fingers inside. She ripples around him and cries out. 

“Go on,” he urges, keeping his fingers stiff but curled while her hips rock and twist. “Make yourself come on my hand, Emmaline.”

His thumb brushes her swollen clit. She knows her face is drawn into a look of agony, by how he cradles her cheek and hushes her. Jimmy gives her another finger and her mouth hangs open. 

Close. One circle on her clit close to orgasm. 

Jimmy brings her face near, thumb slowing, sunk to his knuckles in her wetness and his semen. She meets his gaze, her eyes questioning.

“You’re leaving me again,” he says, searching her face. 

“Only for a bit,” she breathes. 

“Emmaline.”

At a loss, Jimmy kisses her fiercely. And runs his thumb round and round. Takes her sounds, her muscles which close again and again over his fingers. Orgasm swift in her blood. 

She rests in the crook of his neck. Long fingers sift through her hair. 

“Ring me when you land, all right?”

She nods against him, kisses the bottom line of his beard. 

“I will.”


	3. Friedrichshain, East Berlin

Mail arrives, a slim stack as usual, opened with eyes yet she’s yet to scrub of sleep. Tea still steeps in the mug. She does not expect an old man, trousers patched at the knees, bent over with a bundle of sticks on his back. A second sheet slips from beneath the photograph, bearing Jimmy’s handwriting. 

“A potential cover?” she mumbles to herself, examining the image quizzically. “Nothing else but this?”

She scans his letter–nothing else but this. Save an image of public housing, drab flats, for contrast. No mention of the group on the outside jacket, no record company logos, catalogue numbers, and no musicians credits. He’d written on the fly. Ink carries from one letter to the next. 

Her lips quirk. A rudimentary sketch sits at the bottom of the page: Pangbourne with its eaves in careful black swoops. Tiny but recognizable. Infinitely known, a pitch to her heart. She runs her thumb over the drawing before tucking it in her satchel.

The studio awaits. 

Or rather, a church. Not as ornate as some in the region, but more intact from the war. The producer, and her supervisor, Herbert, directs the setup with one hand clasping his reading glasses. Reminiscent of the conductor, with sweeps and jabs, a duel with the air. 

After a week, she knows the choreography well: equipment unpacked, settled in its place, the careful arrangement overhead the conductor’s stand. An aerial trio of microphones with free standing ones placed at the outer perimeter of the orchestra. Of the finest quality, astonishing to put onto tape. 

And so, she listens, blends, adjusts, keeps count with the lightest tap of her foot. Carved saints watch from overhead. This movement sweeps slow, an adagio.

Herbert leans over from behind their makeshift desk, accent gravelly from years of smoking. 

“This one,” he gestures to the conductor with the earpiece of his glasses, “he conducts with his eyes closed every time.”

“How?” she whispers back.

“By memorizing the score.” The volume dims, strings populate the air with their pizzicato. Herbert adds, “He’s a perfectionist.”

Different from other audio engineering, Herbert had told her, the orchestra _must_ keep standards. The ambience of the room is paramount. Their job is to preserve it on tape.

Hours, she’s learned, pass quickly here; every player knows his place and works efficiently. Each block of time neatly upheld. Rigorous and organized. 

She arrives at her flat well after dark, after a quick dinner listening with Herbert and the conductor. Meticulous notes for tomorrow’s session. She drops into bed with her clothes still on. 

She wakes to a shrill ring. Pulse hammering, she reaches blindly for the side table. Does not even think to turn the lamp on. Her voice comes scratchy from sleep. 

“Emmaline,” his voice crackles strongly with relief. “Emma, my darling.”

She flops back onto the pillow, one hand steepled on her forehead. Mind muddy and slow. Eyes lost in the impenetrable darkness of the room.

“My darling.”

“This is she,” she says. Lips curling, still half asleep, she mumbles, “You scared me awake. Had the strangest dream that we lived at the Grange and the ceiling kept leaking, and I thought surely it would cave in but you were certain it would hold a few more months. Then the house was here, in this borough, and we couldn’t leave without having our identification checked. You kept showing the guards your guitar, but it was apparently the wrong kind.”

Jimmy’s chuckles faintly. “My guitar and not my passport or anything like that?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head to the dark, trying to get her thoughts together. “They insisted on a guitar, but not the one you showed. Absurd, really. And anyway, tell me. How’s L.A. and the studio?”

The line rustles. She can see him in his room, feet bare, a cup of tea in hand. The radio’s volume turned down to hear properly. A carton of milk nearby.

“It’s fine,” Jimmy says finally, preoccupied. And then, “But you’re all right?”

“Yes.” She scoots to where the pillow is cool. “Yes, of course I am.”

“Nothing’s wrong?”

She yawns. “Not that I know of.”

“You’re sure?”

She turns to her side and nods. “I am.”

“I don’t believe you,” Jimmy says after a moment.

“You get like this, you know, after five days without sleep.”

“Get like what.”

“Paranoid.”

“I still think something’s wrong, Emma.”

She blows out a breath. Scrubs the eye not resting in the pillow. “In fact, you’ve dialed the wrong number. I’ve moved house, and I apologize but I’ve also changed my name.”

She can hear his smile.

“Where have you moved to?”

“Highly sensitive information, that.”

Jimmy hums. “They’re recruited you as a spy.”

She grins. “Are _you_ all right?”

“Yes,” Jimmy answers too quickly.

“I don’t believe you,” she accuses, teasing him. A distant part of her wonders whether to press. She rolls the cord between her fingers. “Only, the tapes and mixing, it’s like you wanted?”

Porcelain clinks in the background. Jimmy makes a noncommittal sound. The jury is out, apparently.

“You’ll go to bed soon?”

A hushed sound travels from his throat to her ear. 

“Good,” she says. “Chat later.”

“Wait, Emmaline,” his voice sharpens. “Hang on, hang on, and just…”

Her brows pull together, she straightens up in bed. 

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Chat… tomorrow.” 

Anxiety shrouds his voice; like telephones might cease to exist the next morning and her along with it. The next day, too. The calendar cleared off.

Nerves skitter up her spine.

She puts her other hand to the receiver, cradling as though it were his jaw and not molded plastic. 

“You’d tell me,” she ventures. “If something was wrong.”

Reluctance pulses through the silence. She discerns a faint tune from the radio. 

“Yes.” Jimmy takes a breath. “Yes, and I’ll get to sleep soon.”

“Good,” she murmurs. “Sleep well.”


	4. Abbey Road Studios - London

When traffic breaks, Emma hurries along the crosswalk. Nearly running, mindful that her scarf is slipping behind her in a flurry of green. She knows her under eyes must appear bruised and heavy from being awake for so long. And being worried for most of that time. 

Every thought centers on Jimmy. California. An earthquake that registered high enough on the Richter scale that she’d dissected every second of their phone call while aboard her flight. 

Warmth drives the chill from her cheeks, the receptionist waves her back though it wouldn’t have mattered. Roy Harper had booked one of the studios for just under a month, for his new album. Stormcock of all titles—an old name for a Thrush who tends to sing loudest during wet and windy weather. 

Through the glass of the booth, she sees Jimmy with his ankle propped on his knee, Craviola in hand, head bent low. Roy sits beside him with a twelve string. The guitar style is finger picked, progressive, rooted in the folk tradition.

She tightens her fist on her scarf, holds in a breath. Wants badly to dash inside and take his face in her hands. Her breath bursts when Jimmy glances up while speaking, catching sight. His eyes widen, and he sets the Craviola down; he’s through the door and before her, in pink checked shirt and his brown coat. Ruffled hair is brushed back from his disbelieving face. 

“Emmaline,” he says, wondrous. He takes her shoulders as though to check.

“I called Peter when you didn’t answer, and he told me all about it.”

“Darling, I–”

“ _No_ ,” she says, forefinger to his chest. Jimmy takes her wrist, flattening her palm on his breastbone. “Are you all right? And answer me truthfully this time.”

Jimmy looks vaguely amused, his fingers play circles on the top of her hand. 

“I’m all right.”

At her continued look of suspicion, Jimmy reels her in, to bury his head at her neck. Voice muffled, he says,

“I’m telling the truth.”

“Insufferable man,” she says, loving and chiding and relieved at once. “Why did you not tell me there was an earthquake, hm?”

Jimmy shrugs against her, breathing deeply at her neck. She takes his face to tug him in sight.

“You let me go on and on about a dream of all things.”

He smiles softly, traces the outside corner of her eyes. “I like hearing your dreams.”

“Well, I like knowing if you’re in mortal danger.”

He holds back a full grin. She clasps his face tighter, fingers almost obscured in his beard and makes her voice stern.

“Next time, you’ll tell me, hm?”

Jimmy nods. She holds his gaze with her own until satisfied. A smart nod, and she lets him go. Only to find herself wrapped in his arms, tight enough that her lungs squeeze out a breath. One big palm covers the back of her head. As if she were the one in danger. She grabs her wrist around his back and returns the pressure. 

“My darling,” he says, voice low. “You’ll come home for a bit, yeah?”

She nods against him, crushed so close she can hear the thump of his heartbeat. 

They make it to the couch. Or rather, with her perched on the arm and Jimmy standing between her legs. 

Undressed and notched together. Her hands scrabble against his back, trying and failing to keep her orgasm at bay.

In the car, Jimmy had teased her clit into a hard nub. Now her hips hitch into each of his thrusts. He gathers her bottom in his hands, keeping her still for the penetration, leaving kisses along the column of her throat. Where she makes needy little cries that mix with the wet sounds of their coupling. 

She won’t see him for days and days, won’t be naked and near. Her cries grow sharp. Breathless. She comes with her head hanging to the side, hair a sweep over the arm Jimmy keeps around her shoulders. 

He bites her neck hard enough to earn a mewl and a responsive snap of her muscles around his cock. Mind blank and loose. Between her thighs the slick of his ejaculate and her orgasm. 

“Emmaline.” Jimmy says it like a caress.

She buries her face in his neck. “Yes.”

“Come to bed,” he murmurs.

Side by side, they lay facing each other in bed. She traces the dark line of beard down his cheek. From soft, downy skin to thick hair.

“Your nerves are bad tonight,” she says simply.

Jimmy doesn’t meet her eyes at first. They’re occupied somewhere over her shoulder. To something she can’t see. She cups his jaw and notes his breathing; how taught his jaw is, frustration borne from whatever’s on his mind latches firmly onto every muscle in his body. She thinks of his heart, tight fist in need of unloosening, lungs that won’t expand fully. Finally he meets her gaze. The fist loosens. 

“Bloody hate flying.”

“I know.” 

He drifts off, wound around some thought. She waits patiently.

“It’s these fears, all of a sudden,” he says, face crimped in frustration. “The takeoff, the whole thing really. Then crowded rooms…”

“Yes,” she murmurs. “Go on.”

He blows out a breath and shuts his eyes for a long moment. She combs his hair back.

“It’s always in the cities,” he says, eyes shut, voice paced evenly with effort, as though the wording is difficult for him. “Never here, never in the country.”

A faint smile curves her lips. She paints her thumb over his eyelid. “Why haven’t you told me before?”

“Dunno, I…” he shrugs his shoulders in the pillows. Looks at her. “Didn’t want to worry you, it’s silly.”

She pulls the backs of her fingers through his beard, then delves and scratches and watches his eyes flutter closed. Tension leaves his body in a slow, pierced way. 

“It’s not silly,” she says gently. 

He makes a tender sound in the back of his throat. 

“And you know I worry about many things,” she says, a hint of self-deprecation in her voice. “Many of them trivial.”

She scoots closer, a hair's breadth, to slide her fingers against the curve of his scalp; its dips and subtle crags that hair conceals. 

“You are not trivial.”

A quick smile, he rubs into her hand, manages a kiss to her wrist. 

“It’ll sort itself out,” Jimmy says after a time. His nose wrinkles.

“Doesn’t have to sort itself out tonight,” she says. “Or even tomorrow, or the next day.”

Jimmy opens his eyes, a hint of uncertainty in them, a hint of discomfort, something undisclosed—the heart once more.

“And the day after that?”

She rubs her fingertips in circles on his scalp. Until he takes a breath.

“We’ll see about next week sometime.”

He smiles a little, grateful and relieved. A tad amused. His hand reaches from under the covers to lie atop hers, over his cheek.

“Next week sometime.”

“Yes,” she says, and returns his smile. “We’ll pencil it in, tentative of course.”

His cheek rises against their hands. A firm press of his hand, and she understands—weariness, relief from weariness. How he yawns and brings her hand round to kiss her palm. She urges him against her chest, head between her breasts. Jimmy goes without thought, with only a deep breath expelled once he’s settled. One of her palms splays between his shoulder blades, her other hand rests against dark hair, smoothing it back from his neck, scratching gently at his nape. She misses the sleepy mumble told to her skin.

At the questioning sound she makes, Jimmy shifts his cheek up, looking at her from under his eyelashes.

“You are here with me?”

“Yes.” She tightens her hold. “Yes, I am here with you.”

In the pale morning, when the room is still, and the fire has reduced to embers, she bends to him, smoothes dark hair away. Presses a kiss to his temple. On his belly, one long arm curled above his head, he sleeps deeply and untroubled. Another kiss and his eyes flutter open slowly.

“You’re dressed…”

She sweeps her thumb over his beard and nods. “I’ve got to go now.”

“Going,” he says in a groggy way that makes her smile. He shakes his head in denial. “Not yet.”

“Yes,” she murmurs, “I’ve got a car waiting to take me to Heathrow.”

Jimmy shuts his eyes tight and grabs hold of her wandering wrist. He buries his words half into the pillow. 

“No more cars and flights, Emmaline.”

“I’m afraid I can’t just materialize into Germany.”

She means to sound playful but his eyes snap open at the sentence, only to slant to where he keeps hold of her hand. His brows bend in a frown and words work beneath his closed mouth. With an alteration, she twists her fingers with his and bends for his kiss. Warm lips meet hers, his tongue heavy and hot and lazy with its tangle. Slowly, he loosens his hold, and she extracts her hand. She pulls the covers to his shoulders and cups his chin, thumbing his beard.

“I’ll see you,” she says. “Go back to sleep now.”


	5. Friedrichshain, East Berlin

“She knows he lies dead, but hallucinates him alive. Until she succumbs to grief and collapses dead beside him.”

Herbert speaks to Emma while checking the tape reel; the studio is quiet this evening. Especially quiet after having listened to the first two acts of the opera. They’d mixed them down in a minimalist fashion, and even then, it’s been hours.

“What is she singing at first?” she asks behind a yawn.

“That her love smiles sweetly and mildly, and his eyes open.” Herbert slides his glasses on. “Impossible, him being dead. But you see, the harmonies never resolve, the mode remains dissonant. Until she dies.”

“Musical tension,” she says, cheek in her fist, elbow on the edge of the desk.

“Precisely.” Herbert removes the full tape to its canister and places a new roll on the deck. “We want to capture that tension.”

Each phrase brings expectation, that the harmonies will in fact resolve, that all will end well. The soloist’s emotions are palpable through the master tapes. Longing is a sheer face, something to stop short of, where the drop is long and immeasurable. A faint hiss sounds under the music, a product of the tape and the transducer.

“All right there?”

“Yes,” she clears her throat. “Got distracted, sorry.”

“Take a few minutes for yourself.” He’s intent upon the controls. “We’ll be here for a while longer.”

She knows the number by heart, the dial can barely keep up with her finger. Jimmy answers on the second ring. 

“Jimmy,” she says, sagging against the wall. “I know I’m calling late, were you asleep?”

“No, my darling,” his voice is soft but alert. “Was just about to ring you, actually. How is it today? Wagner, yes?”

“Mm, the love-death right now.”

“The liebestod,” his voice curls around the word. “Been a long time since I listened to anything but this LP.”

She chuckles. “And how is the fourth album today? Any better?”

“They’ve lost their high end completely,” Jimmy says in a flat voice, resigned to the fate of the tapes.

“What?” Her eyebrows knit. “Completely? How can that be?”

She sees him shrug in her mind's eye, his shoulders bunched up. 

“The monitors must’ve given us a totally false picture…” Jimmy trails off, caught in his thoughts. “Sounds like we recorded at the bottom of a lake. Just muddled and ruined, really.”

“Ruined,” she shakes her head in disbelief. “You’ll have to remaster everything, won’t you?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice clipped.

“I’m sorry, my darling.”

He laughs with a half breath, half chuckle.

“I’m not sure how the sessions could’ve been so free, and here the mixing feels like an endless uphill battle,” he says.

“Well, you do have a skewed measuring stick,” she says. “Being at the desk for so long, you always go deaf, even to the best tracks.”

“Mm.” 

Silence fills the line, Jimmy speaks to someone, voice projected away from the phone. In the weeks since they’ve seen each other, she’s used to these interruptions. Over a month, she realizes, since she’s seen him last. Distance like that sheer drop—she wishes to dip into the holes of the receiver. Appear before him for a few moments. 

“Emmaline,” Jimmy pulls her from her thoughts. “Have I lost you?”

“No,” she says, shaking herself. “I’m still here.”

“Have you had dinner yet?”

“Yes, some spaetzle. I’m told it means little sparrow.”

Jimmy laughs, the sound blooms warmth behind her chest. 

“You’ll come back for a bit, won’t you little sparrow?” 

“Yes,” she murmurs, lips curling. “I’ll see you at the theatre.”

“Get back to work, then.” Jimmy puts on a mock, stern voice. “I’ll do the same.”


	6. Paris Cinema Theatre - London

“‘They’re at it again. I feel weightless after the music’s over, escaping from the crowd, riding through the quiet; time and I are strangers, atlas shrugging in the city, remembering how much I enjoy the feeling. And these are only things.’”

Robert pauses reading the review to take a long drag of his cigarette. Sweat dampens his hair and shirt; a product of the theatre’s small stage, bright lights, and three hours of performing for an intimate audience. The BBC had been generous in offering them a spot on John Peel’s evening radio programme. Post concert, those left mill about in small groups. Robert gives Emma an expectant look, angling for drama in his pause. 

Bonzo snatches the paper from his grasp, scanning down to the end. He reads fast,

“‘I like it that Zep doesn’t need any supporting acts, justifies the complete sell-out, catches the crowd with the first tune and holds them tight. Zep. Never too tired to brighten the lives of those who feel a little purposeless. They call it rock and roll, a fragment of the truth.’”

“Did you have to finish it, Bonz?” Robert gripes. “I was gettin’ there.”

“You weren’t,” Bonzo claps him on the shoulder. “Fiddling about like always.”

Robert glares at him but accepts the drink pressed to his hands. He turns to Emma.

“What did you think?”

“You all played very well.”

He pouts. “But you got here late, in the middle of the set.”

She leans up to peck his cheek, getting some hair in the process. “There was an auto accident on the way to the airport. I enjoyed every second of what I heard, promise.”

Robert grins, pleased and radiating adrenaline. A tap that will doubtless take a few more hours to shut off. Which propels him back to Bonzo, now reading the review to a small audience. For trouble, no doubt.

A pair of arms wind around her waist. 

“I’m sorry I left, my darling. Had to chat with the engineer.”

She turns in his grasp. To see bright eyes, pinked cheeks. Beard longer still since she’s seen him. Jimmy plops a kiss on her nose. 

“Did you like the results today?” she asks.

Jimmy hums. She doesn’t miss how he maneuvers them closer to the stage’s exit. 

“You don’t want to stay longer?” she asks archly.

He leans in, as if telling her some great secret. “I want to go home, my darling.”

“Why is that?” she whispers, lips curving. 

He nips her earlobe and hastens her out the door. 

Herringbone patterned, warm from his body, lapels flipped up, his coat lies crumpled on the floor. Just inside Pangbourne’s entryway. A cold chill wafts from the river but she doesn’t notice. Hardly aware of anything except Jimmy’s mouth closing over hers. He offers his tongue for her to suck, his taste recognizable, galvanizing. 

He breaks away panting. Only to strip her of her satchel and sweater; his own undressing frenzied. 

“Emmaline,” he groans at her neck, cupping her breasts, thumbing her tightened nipples.

She presses deeper into his hands for him to suckle her and rasp his tongue over her sensitive skin, his beard scrapes the delicate undersides.

“When is your flight?”

“Tomorrow, early,” she seeks his mouth again. “Jimmy…”

He palms between her legs, pressing the heel of his hand against her mound. The pleasure is staggering. It scatters her thoughts.

“Come home early,” Jimmy whispers.

“Can’t,” she manages. “I’ll be back in a month.”

Two fingers slip inside her slick folds, swirling her clit, drawing wetness to that engorged bundle of nerves. 

“Up,” Jimmy says, smiling at her confused expression. “Sit there, my darling.”

The sideboard where mail and miscellany usually end up bears her weight. Jimmy urges her legs to bend and feet to rest at the table’s edge. He runs his fingers up and down her sex, dipping in only to draw out, circle her clit. She grabs at his shoulders. 

“M-more,” she demands.

Crinkles pleat across his temples. Jimmy clasps her nape and penetrates her with one velvet stroke. 

In the mirror hanging across from her, she can observe her own desperate expression. Dimples form above Jimmy’s ass with each thrust. The fit tight and – 

“So full,” she whines. 

Jimmy nuzzles her earlobe. “Come, sweet girl.”

She whimpers in response. Jimmy kisses her mouth, careful of her tongue, drawing back to kiss her bottom lip and give her shallow thrusts. She strains against her orgasm until it breaks–fervent and swallowing and she turns her face into his cheek to cry out. Voice hoarse and nose wedged under his ear. 

Jimmy puts one arm around her shoulders to tuck their bodies as close as possible. Hips snapping, he comes a second later.

Immersed in the sweet fuzz of orgasm, she registers only their panting. Her head lolls on his shoulder. Semen leaks from between her thighs. A mess. The best kind. She smiles against his neck and burrows kisses at the bottom of his beard; such a sensitive place that makes a shiver run up his spine. 

“My darling,” Jimmy sighs. 

Another kiss in response. He tastes salty and of himself. She pulls back to find hazy eyes watching her, lips plump and red from their kissing. She’s still in her socks, he in his white sneakers. Both of them begin to shiver in the drafty hallway. 

She scratches under his chin until his head tilts up with a deep contented groan. 

“Are you hungry?” she asks.

Jimmy nods against her, a kiss to her nipple. “Starved.”

In the dark, in sleep, silence presses down and gathers speed. Thundering, full of some unknown terror to which she is lashed. Paralyzed. She knows neither herself nor the voice calling her name. No differentiation in that terror and the arms crossed over her front like a safety harness. She has no sense of her twitching body or her small whimpers.

“Emmaline, it’s all right, darling,” he says. “It’s all right.”

When the words finally pierce her brain, she struggles to sit up. And Jimmy lets her–her skin itchy and crawling. He follows her, one hand between her shoulder blades.

“Emmaline.”

Jimmy makes soft, soothing noises. As if she were an animal backed into a corner. Small. Trapped under fear.

Ashamed of herself, of such an absurd fright, she says,

“I’m sorry.”

He brings her closer. Into his lap. “Ah, none of that.”

Jimmy smoothes his thumbs beneath her eyes, where her lashes have spiked.

“Was the dream bad?”

A question that needs no formal answer, it is enough that he wakes her and greets her tenderly. Her nod tells him what he needs to know. 

“Do you remember it?”

A shake of her head. Gathered like this, in the seams of her thoughts, each one tucked against the other, she could slip into a fold and never be found. 

Jimmy kisses where his thumbs were; the brush of his lips and beard ground her somewhat. He makes a sympathetic sound in his throat. She allows him to nestle her head under his chin. 

These nights bring cold breezes where the windows have gaps, where the house is unsealed. Jimmy has taken to rolling a towel against the bottom of the bedroom door. The fire is banked to last. Warm, big hands search under her nightshirt to press against her back. 

“I’m sorry if I woke you.” Her voice sounds paper thin to her ears. “Or kicked you or anything.”

“You know I’m awake half the time anyway, Emmaline,” Jimmy says this to the top of her head, as if the words might pierce through worry, directly into her thoughts. “You’re free to wake me anytime, for any reason.”

He’s right–many nights see him propped against the headboard, absently massaging the hard tips of his fingers. Many times she’d padded to the kitchen to find him dozing with a cup of tea. And most times he’d take her back to bed, settle his dark head between her legs, and feed until she’d sleep. Inner thighs rosy from his beard. Slick from orgasm and his saliva. 

“Lift your arms, my darling,” he urges softly. 

She does, wanting to unburden herself–let herself go into that wellspring of tenderness. To the sweet pull his mouth on her nipples, laving them, offering the barest hint of a bite. She holds his head to her chest. 

And Jimmy tugs her from her seams. Guides her to lie beneath him, sex bloomed pink and wreathed with damp curls. She grows wet under his tongue. Her fingers wind in his hair. 

“Jimmy -” her voice cuts into a sharp moan when he gives her clit a messy, open-mouthed kiss. His mouth searing, suckling, following the writhe of her hips. 

He goes on like for a while, rolling her clit under his tongue until it’s swollen and achy. A flush covers her from breasts to hairline. His beard rubs at the fragile inner skin where her inner thigh connects to her sex. Jimmy brings her to a slow, shivering orgasm of soft whines and curled toes. 

Then he brings her down gently. Brings her legs round his waist. She savors the precious feel of his hips cradled in her thighs. How he rocks into the spasms, into the slippery wet heat so drenched with her own pleasure that his cock drives inside effortlessly. 

Jimmy licks her neck and buries his sounds there. Deep, deliberate thrusts bring him to the mouth of her womb. Face flushed and mouth slack. Utterly given over to his orgasm. 

He stays inside her, with shallow thrusts, eyes luminous with emotion. Jimmy cups her cheek.

“You are here with me?” she asks, voice raw edged, open as a wound. 

He nudges his nose to hers. “Yes.”

By the time the birds sing and the sun pricks across the river, she’s up. Though every joint in her body protests. Jimmy watches from their bed while she winds her scarf around her neck. An unreadable emotion sets his brows. 

“Emmaline,” he holds out a hand. “You look exhausted, my darling.”

She takes it, guiding it to her cheek and leaning in, “I’ll rest later.”

A tiny, knowing smile curls his lips. Knowing that she likely won’t. His thumb sways on her cheek. 

“I’ll call when I get there,” she says. Offers a kiss to his palm before letting go. “Promise.” 


	7. Friedrichshain, East Berlin

May hurries past. Hay fever does not. Between itchy eyes and a bout of rapid fire sneezing, she thinks her head must resemble a cotton swab. Herbert watches with slight concern as she drinks yet another piping hot cup of tea.

“My granddaughter gets the same,” he says, gesturing to his nose and eyes. “Every spring.”

“Yes,” she gives him a wan smile. “I’m on the mend, thankfully.”

Herbert places another reel on the deck. Back to work. Back to the last edits before the LP goes out to test pressings. An unfortunate series of electrical outages has set the work back. Had also sent Herbert on a tear about the quality of the borough’s infrastructure. Even now, the lights in the hallway appear dimmer, waning. If not for caffeine, she’s sure sleep would demand her, claim her attention and result in some error with the mixing. 

Her brow creases, she catches the signal of interference in the left channel. A crackle that disrupts the painstaking performance, and consequently, prompts a shared look between herself and Herbert. 

“It’s faint,” she says. “I doubt many will notice the disruption.”

Herbert makes an indistinct grumble she’s learned to mean he’s in thought. Weighing the limits of the deadline, East Berlin’s shaky power grid, and the prospect of presenting a less than immaculate set of tapes to the conductor. 

Her sneeze ruffles the silence in the booth and spurs him into words. 

“We’ll let it be for now, could be a problem with the power.”

She nods, relieved, dabbing her watery eyes with a handkerchief. Only two days till England. Which puts her at ease before remembering a series of missed phone calls from Jimmy presses worry upon her thoughts. 

She nibbles her lip, listening, doing what Herbert directs her to do. Until she’s able to make a dash to the kitchen, empty and cool and dark and the blue telephone hanging on the wall. Jimmy answers almost immediately.

“Jimmy,” she breathes. “How’s Denmark?”

“We played some new tracks,” he sounds tired but energized. The result of a good show. “The kids were wild.”

“Yeah?”

There’s a pause on the other end. “I was hoping you’d -”

“What? Hoping I’d what?”

“That you’d make it down here.”

She rests her forehead on the wall by the phone. “Jimmy.”

“I know, I know you can’t leave,” he blows out a breath. “Feels like I've hardly seen you, and you haven’t been picking up the phone.”

She bites the inside of her cheek. “I’m sorry for the missed calls. Been a circus here. But you know that if I could be there, I would. And you know you’ve got my love as well. That will always be the case.”

“Yes,” he says after a moment. “Yes, mine too.”

“Good,” she says evenly. “I’ve got -”

A series of sneezes interrupt her voice; head dizzied and nose thick, she hears Jimmy. 

“You’re ill, Emmaline. And I…”

“You’d fuss over me for nothing, Jimmy. It always clears up quickly. Absolutely nothing to-” 

She breaks off to sneeze again. Jimmy’s concern travels the line, clear as if he stood before her.

“Get a basin of hot water when you get back,” Jimmy says firmly.

“Yes, doctor.”

“Emmaline.”

His tone tells her that if he were there, he’d put the kettle on, pour hot water in a basin, and stick her head over top. A towel draped over her and the basin to trap steam. No matter how she’d fidget, Jimmy would make sure she stayed the length of the timer. One hand along her back, making small circles before wiping her pink face dry. Then she’d admit, grudgingly, to feeling better. 

“I’ll be sure and do it,” she says with a labored sigh. “But I’ve got to go now.”

“Wait,” his voice rises sharply, a note of panic that makes her straighten. “Hang on, hang on a minute.”

The receiver digs into the side of her face. Vague thoughts coalesce, the type of niggling worry that the stove was left on, a candle not put out. An ember escaped. Some impending hazard.

“What is it?”

“The hot water, you’ll do it when you get to the flat?” His urgency bleeds to silence.

“Yes.” She takes a long breath, oxygen tempered down to her toes. “I’ll do it when I finish up here.”

A beat passes, she hears his breath come up rough from his throat. 

“Jimmy?”

“Don’t hang up angry,” he says, ardent, hesitant—an anxious mixture.

She loosens her grip on the phone and hangs one hand off the back of her neck. 

“I’m not angry, Jimmy. I’m tired, sort of frustrated, and I’ve slept on my neck wrong.” She takes another stabilizing breath. “But it’ll sort itself out.”

“Doesn’t-” The line rustles when he changes ears. “Doesn’t have to sort itself out tonight.”

She closes her eyes; her smile slow and curling. Warmth floods her chest. For long moments, they breathe into the connection. She finds herself rocked into the cadence; she could fall asleep holding the line. 

“I’ll see you soon,” Jimmy repeats. 

White noise fills the earpiece, she hangs up, and already the next tape sounds in the distance. Flows this way and that to call her back to the desk. 


	8. Pangbourne

Jimmy paces the front garden relentlessly until her car appears. The relief on his face could shatter the windows if he wasn’t pulling her out of the backseat the minute the vehicle comes to a complete stop. 

“ _Emmaline_.”

“You know,” she says to the red flower woven into his sweater. “I suspect you’ve spent all these months worrying over nothing.”

He only tightens his hold, saying stubbornly, “Not nothing.”

She chuckles and twists a loose thread around her finger. “Do you fancy going inside?”

He makes a soft noise into her hair. Makes them rock from side to side, no space between where they’re pressed. She breathes his scent into the furthest reaches of her lungs. Forms her hands over the curve of his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he says, unexpectedly.

“What?” She raises her head. Jimmy watches her intently. “Sorry for what?”

“I’ve…” Frustration with himself twitches his lips; he finds language and says, “Been rather selfish with you.”

She puts her forehead back to his chest. “You know I wanted that job, though I’m pleased to be home.”

“I thought surely something would happen.”

“I know you did,” she says simply. Then, nudging him, “Come inside, come inside with me.”

Jimmy takes her face. A cautious, vulnerable gaze meets hers. Dives to her chin then again to her expectant eyes. 

“I’ve missed you, too,” she says. 

A brilliant smile emerges. Lips lay over hers in that melting, hungry way of his. She meets every stroke of his tongue. Meets him naked upon their bed, her every inch inspected, nipples suckled to sensitive peaks. She wants to return the pleasure but Jimmy drags her to the edge of the bed, despite her faint protests. 

“Jimmy,” she says, exposed to his lidded gaze, sex a dark pink and glossy. “I wanted to…”

His forearm presses against the backs of her knees to clamp them to her chest. So she cannot defend her sex. Deprived of seeing him, Emma can only whine and flex against his hold. His fingers part her glazed folds to find her clitoris and worry it into a hard bundle. She tries to shimmy closer but Jimmy retreats, kissing the sensitive backs of her thighs, rubbing his bearded cheeks into her skin. Torment that makes her blood run thick and hot and slow.

“Please,” she sighs, head tossing. “Please, please, _please_.”

Jimmy bends to drive his fingers inside her, ignoring her clit, her whines, the way she winds into his touch. He means to make her wet enough for his fingers to squelch, for her pussy to flutter helplessly around the invasion. 

He curls his fingers. She arches. 

He deposits a light kiss to her clit. She tries to reach for his hair.

Wet lips meet her fingers. Beard wet, too. Her legs hitched over his shoulders and her body folded tightly beneath him, and, blessedly, Jimmy guides his cock inside.

“Close,” she whimpers.

Cheeks flushed, eyes trained on her and breathing fast, he says, “I know, my love.”

Jimmy takes hold of her hair while he flexes his hips to nip and suck at her exposed neck. His beard makes red, raspy marks on her skin, his cock saws deep and slow. Penetrated and writhing, she cannot take much more. 

“Jimmy,” she practically sobs his name. 

The lips of her sex cling wetly to his retreating cock, only to flatten and stretch when he penetrates again. Jimmy keeps her head still and looks at her.

“Are you wanting to come, Emmaline?” His voice wraps lovingly around her name. 

She nods, nearly to tears. Jimmy reaches between them to tease her clit. Slow circles. Maddening, calf trembling circles that make her constrict in warning. He just brings his thumb around that swollen bundle of nerves.

“Look at me, my darling. Look at me while you come.”

Jimmy catches her chin in his hand, catches her whimpers and cries, thrusting rhythmically all the while.

“Go on,” he murmurs.

Pinned in the sheets, under his body, she’s helpless to her orgasm. A heart slamming pleasure which does not let go, drags her every sense till she’s limp.

“That’s it,” he kisses her slack mouth. “Hush, my sweet darling.”

Jimmy shoves deep, deeper. Her hands scrabble against his back. His teeth show a grimace like pain. 

Pink nipples, pink lips. That deep, attracting color set off against the primitive dark of his beard. Neck so tense; his hips diving in and out. Makes her full then empty–aching all the way through. 

She raises her head to lick at one of his nipples. Pebbled into a small peak, salty, it makes his cock twitch inside her. She moans in return and tastes the other. Just as he does for her.

“Emma-” his voice breaks into a moan. 

She fills her hands with his hair, holding him through his climax. 

In the bath, Jimmy has her stand for him to wash the seed and slick from between her legs. 

She soaps his hair in a rich lather, beard too. Holds his nose and dunks him into the bathwater. His eyes close, cheeks billow on a held breath. Jimmy shakes his head to knock off the soap–hair like dark seagrass in a current, lush movement without pause.

He surfaces ruddy cheeked and slippery limbed. To wash her next. 

She finds herself kissed coming up. Her neck supported, her chin cupped, hair half submerged in the water. Jimmy leaves off with slow, lavish kisses. His nose nuzzles hers. 

Once clean and dry, she pulls Jimmy to bed. To rest at her breast. Dark, drying hair falls down her side. She pets him absently, so near the drop of sleep.

“In the evening, when I am with you and you are with me, I wonder where it all goes.”

Lingering pleasure and sleepiness make her brain slow to comprehend. She slips her fingers lazily through his beard and hair. 

“Where what goes?”

Jimmy kisses her hand as it passes. “All this love I have for you.”

She breathes a gentle laugh. “You imagine it a traveller? A peasant with his sticks?”

He makes small tracings on her ribs. Not quite a tickle, not a message of words but one bound by touch. Her aorta is a quick inch away. Its arch like that of a walking stick–heart hung on the end. He could reach in easily. Go out walking with it.

“Dunno,” he says, and she knows that tone. Soft in thought. It’s been on his mind. “I just wonder.”

She hums low in her throat and cups his jaw to tilt his face. “Tell me what you wonder.”

“I think it goes somewhere in here.” Jimmy splays his hand on her belly. On skin damp and warm from the bath, flushed from being pressed against him. Jimmy pulls back to get a good look at her. “Do you feel it here?”

“I…” She searches with her lip between her teeth, a shrug tinged with a smile. “Feel you everywhere. You are not kept in one place or another.”

“Hmm.”

His brows furrowed, Jimmy searches her abdomen with his gaze and hands; he scatters kisses every now and again. And slides two fingers inside her sex, skin still sensitive and wet. She parts easily for him, with only a slow, shivering sigh. 

“And here?”

“I feel your fingers, and where you’ve been inside me.”

Jimmy’s eyes widen, his fingers slow. “You’re sore?”

“Only a bit.”

His thumb kisses her swollen clitoris in answer.

“I was rough with you.”

Her hum is throaty. “I like when you are.”

Jimmy rubs his smile into her belly, then raises his head, fingers working slow. “But you do feel it?”

Her nod comes immediately, eyes pinched closed. 

“Yes, yes, I always do.”

Jimmy nuzzles her tummy with his bearded cheeks. Smiling. 

Orgasm makes her skin tingle. When the final spasms fade around his fingers, Jimmy withdraws and puts them in his mouth. Kisses her after. Filthy sweet. 

She notches her ankles against his calves and hooks him close so he’s pressed against her once more.

“I keep you,” she says. A kiss to his mouth articulates each word. “In so many places.”

Jimmy groans and twines his tongue with hers. That supple, specific communication. A silence in which nothing rests but the gazing ; a skin of understanding in which they are slipped in, rested in. Known in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I’ve written other one shots set in 1971 that overlap with this story. They’re apart here when they’re together in other stories. I might be making too much of this inconsistency but I’m hoping the story still reads smoothly! 
> 
> I took a few things from the LZ website: The interview in the first chapter was likely done in Paris, but I put it in London. The snippet I used is taken from JP's interview with Georgina Mells. Robert and Bonzo's reading of a press review is actually from the August 21, 1971 show at The Forum, from a paper called Cashbox. I was so taken with the wording that I wanted to use it in this story, though not for the same concert. 
> 
> A few changes: Roy Harper actually recorded Stormcock in late 1970 but I pushed it up to 1971 for my narrative purposes. I was loose with exact dating because I kept getting hung up on the real/fictional timelines. But, I think it’s enough to map the arc of the emotions expressed, if that makes sense. To observe that presence even if I’ve jumbled some dates and fragments of interviews/reviews. A bit of a collage way of narrative but hopefully a seamless read.
> 
> JP’s comment on fear of flying, heights, and claustrophobia is real but I could not source it for the life of me! I think it might’ve come from an interview in 1975. 
> 
> Bonzo calls the sound of his drums frudge in part two, which comes from an interview with Andy Johns about the recording of IV. But Barney Hoskyns claims that Bonzo called this effect thrutch. I chose frudge because I like the way it sounds.
> 
> When Emma says she’s gotten off “thinking of this,” I was inspired by paintbox. That bit in in Idle Work really stuck with me and I wanted to weave it into this scene. I hope it’s alright I used it here <3
> 
> And finally, Emma’s comment on JP’s nerves being bad tonight comes directly from T.S. Eliot’s poem, The Wasteland. Here’s the portion:
> 
> My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.  
> Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.  
> What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?  
> I never know what you are thinking. Think.
> 
> Thank you for reading <33


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